Rash dreamer, return! Oh, ye winds of the main, To barter thy calm life of labour and peace !- Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, HUMAN LIFE: ITS FOUR STAGES. SAMUEL ROGERS. THE lark has sung his carol in the sky, The babe, the sleeping image of his sire! A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Then, the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin; And soon againshall music swell the breeze : Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scattered round; and old and young, In every cottage porch, with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene; ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. 157 While, her dark eyes declining, by his side He rests in holy earth, with them who went before. ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. LEIGH HUNT. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase) "What writest thou ?"-The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. THOMAS HOOD. WITH fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; "Work-work-work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work! Till the stars shine through the roof! It's, oh! to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! "Work-work-work! Till the brain begins to swim: Till the eyes are heavy and dim! "O men, with sisters dear! O men, with mothers and wives, It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 159 "Work-work-work! My labour never flags; And what are its wages?-A bed of straw, That shattered roof, and this naked floor, A table, a broken chair; And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, feet, To feel as I used to feel, "Oh, but for one short hour! No blessed leisure for love or hope, A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang this "Song of the Shirt!' A CRADLE SONG. W. BLAKE. SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright, Sweet babe, in thy face As thy softest limbs I feel, Oh, the cunning wiles that creep THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. THOMAS DAVIS. THE summer's sun is falling soft on Carb'ry's hundred isles, The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles. Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird; And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard: |